


mouth full of ghosts

by thisisgonnahurt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, mention of past cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisgonnahurt/pseuds/thisisgonnahurt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place directly after 1x02. Will and Hannibal have a (brief) conversation about power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mouth full of ghosts

“He felt powerful.”

Hannibal’s words are ghosts, faint yet powerful spectres that invade Will’s mind with all the thoughts and feelings he has tried over the years to forget; he stares into the air as if he could see them, feeling both warm and cold and altogether haunted. It has been years since he has slept with anyone, but the low roll of Hannibal’s voice permeates even the most dormant parts of his brain.

_He felt powerful._

Too much time has passed since Hannibal spoke, but Will laughs anyway, and Hannibal allows himself to smile. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that God kills.” Will says, less to actually argue and more to keep the conversation going. He likes talking with Hannibal. 

“Perhaps.” Will can feel the warmth of Hannibal’s gaze on him. He lifts his eyes to meet Hannibal’s just as the other speaks again. “But you have.” His voice is calm and he stands up. Will’s eyes follow. “Does that make you feel more powerful than God?” 

“It makes me more powerful than you,” Will retorts, tearing his eyes away and returning them to the air. He was looking too long, and he knows Hannibal noticed. 

Silence. If Will stares straight ahead, he can see the ever-so-slight shadow of Hannibal’s cock against the patterned fabric of his slacks. 

Now it is Hannibal who speaks after too long of a pause. “Do you want to feel more powerful than me, Will?” He asks, a tinge of amusement to his words. Will has never noticed how broad his hands are. “Is it because you think I am prying too much into your inner workings?” 

Will stands too. “I appreciate you trying to help me, but you’ve never killed a man.” He is shaking, voice too uncertain and breaths too uneven to help his attempt at being flippant. The session is nearly over and he moves to go around Hannibal, to the safety of his car and home and a place where he can deal with the rushing current of his brain. 

Hannibal’s hand is like steel when it clamps on his shoulder.

Will jerks away instinctively at the touch, but Hannibal’s fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder and spin him around. His other hand grabs Will’s other shoulder. “Killing a man does not make you powerful,” Hannibal says quietly, and Will looks at him just quickly enough to see him staring at Will’s mouth. “Just as saving one does not make you heroic. These are simply actions, Will. It is the intent behind all movements that define the truth of a person.” His hands have softened on Will’s shoulders, but only slightly, and he slides one hand up just enough to brush his thumb over the side of Will’s neck. 

Will pulls away again from the touch, and this time Hannibal lets him; but Will makes no move for the door. He feels as if the temperature in the room has ratcheted up by a thousand degrees, burning him alive, and he doesn’t know how to survive this _heat_. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” he murmurs, and Hannibal makes a very undignified noise. 

“Don’t throw your platitudes at me, Will,” he says sharply. “You are smarter than that. True power is rare. It is why so many spend so much time trying to achieve it.” 

A phone rings and Will jumps. It is his own cell phone. He knows he should check it, but he makes the mistake of looking into Hannibal’s eyes again – unheard of, for him, twice in one conversation – and he feels frozen. 

Another ring. Hannibal moves towards him, and by the time the phone beeps once angrily and goes silent, Hannibal is closer to Will than he has allowed anyone to be in years. A hand reaches out to adjust Will’s glasses and he would be reminded of Jack if Hannibal’s presence wasn’t so thoroughly consuming him. 

Hannibal’s voice is impossibly low as he asks, “Do you feel powerful right now, Will?”

Will feels like he’s simultaneously burning and drowning. For the first time in days, his mind is completely free of thoughts about Hobbs. 

The hand on Will’s glasses slides into his hair. “I asked you a question. Do you feel _powerful_ right now, William?”

“No,” Will chokes out, overwhelmed at the surge of sheer want that blankets his skin, “no, Hannibal, I don’t.”

Hannibal’s teeth are almost gentle when they sink into the side of Will’s throat.

Will gasps and his hands fly up, but instead of pushing Hannibal away like he had intended, they instead somehow cling to Hannibal’s biceps, and Hannibal smiles against Will’s skin. 

It moves quickly after that. Will is almost painfully sensitive after so long, and Hannibal has no desire to make him wait. Will’s fingers grind into the fabric of Hannibal’s suit and Hannibal grasps his wrists, moving his arms above his head.

“This is a very expensive suit, Will,” Hannibal tells him, letting go of Will’s wrists. Will leaves his arms where they are. It is a blindingly arousing scene and Hannibal is surprised to find himself almost breathless. He had chosen this path because he is 100% sure of the results it will produce and thus exactly how it will fit into his plan, but he would be foolish to pretend that he does not find Will to be a beautiful specimen of humanity. 

The last person he found this beautiful had tasted exquisite paired with a red wine reduction sauce and sautèed mushrooms.

Will swallows heavily, and Hannibal is fascinated by the movement of the imprint of his teeth on Will’s throat. 

His hands are quick and efficient on Will’s fly, pushing his jeans and boxers down, and when he slides his dry palm around Will’s cock, Will makes a noise like a sob. His nipples are peaked against the thin, worn fabric of his shirt; Hannibal delicately scrapes his teeth over one and catalogues the desperate moan that he hears. Pleased, he lifts his palm briefly from Will to lick it before returning, speeding up the motions of his hand and the flicks of his wrist, and draw Will’s nipple into his mouth through his shirt.

Through all of it, Will keeps his arms above his head.

It does not stop him from writhing under Hannibal, cock stiff and leaking, nonsensical words falling from his lips. His breathing is panicky, irregular, and when Hannibal bites down on his nipple it stops altogether before he gasps like a dying man, cock pulsing in Hannibal’s hand and hips bucking helplessly. Hannibal draws him through it, wringing out every drop of Will’s release until Will tries to move away from the over-stimulation. Hannibal removes his hand, licking his fingers. He closes his eyes, savouring the taste, and when he opens them Will is sitting up, staring at him.

Hannibal is hard, but he does not expect to attain release until after Will has left; it is a point in Will’s favour that he surprises Hannibal by licking his lips and saying, “Please, let – let me.” He is flushed, mouth red, and Hannibal wonders if he has ever done this.

Soon Hannibal is sure he has; he must have, because the experience of having Will Graham’s lips wrapped around him is superb. Hannibal does not lose control easily, and certainly not with people he has just met, but he permits himself a quiet gasp when he comes down Will’s throat. 

Will straightens, wiping his lips; Hannibal reaches out and touches his cheek. Will averts his eyes, but there is a small smile on his lips. 

Hannibal is starving.

“You should eat something.” He states. Will does not meet his eyes again, but he nods, the smile widening just a bit before smoothing out. Hannibal wants to bite his lips until they bleed.

Instead he says, “I have a lovely roast prepared. You are okay with it being cooked rare?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Will responds.

For the third time that night, Hannibal smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for liking this pairing as much as I do, but I ain't even mad.


End file.
